


i get a little lonely

by nohatoclato



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Alcohol, Concerned Butcher, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Feelings, M/M, Motels, Phone Sex, Possessive Behavior, they are both drunk and miles away from each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28283562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nohatoclato/pseuds/nohatoclato
Summary: distance makes the parts grow fonder.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 9
Kudos: 69





	i get a little lonely

As often as Butcher (jokingly) complains about their combined intelligence, Butcher knows they can take care of themselves. Three out of four of his team members are cordial with violence, and will use it if necessary.

Then, there’s Mr. Campbell, the six-foot pup. His ability to make it thus far on his own is painfully shocking, and, without the combined effort of multiple, stronger, more vicious people than he, Hughie would have met a sad end long ago.

He’s got great faith in his team’s ability to keep Hughie out of harm's way. Absolute, total faith.

So he only calls every 3 hours, instead of every 45 minutes. He doesn’t want to seem nervous.

He throws his bag onto the motel bed ( a half-empty duffle) unzips it, and fishes around for his Roadtrip Booze, five lukewarm cans, and tosses them onto his bed. 

Butcher keeps digging, past his own underwear and socks, and his fingers slip against something foreign. 

He slowly pulls it out, and realizes that there is an argument to be made for getting Hughie his own bag, because he’s holding one of Hughies many t-shirts. It’s even got his initials written gently on the inside. Not like he needs them written down, because it quite obviously reeks of him. It’s got all of his smells, the shampoo, the axe, the stale edge of sweat- he’s practically got a smaller, softer Hughie beside him in the room. 

Butcher sets it onto the bedside table, next to the dusty motel phone, and the fuck-ugly lamp. 

He pulls his boots off and lifts himself to lie fully on the bed, throws his coat off beside him and still can’t take his eyes off of it. It’s a distraction from the unsavory stiffness of the sheets, and he quickly reaches for the remote for a further distraction. 

The TV flicks to life with some story about a home invasion, he flicks past that. The next is some ad for Supe cereal (he flicks past that), the next is an ad for some B-level Supe action figure (he flicks past that), the next is an ad for a special kind of pillow for back pain, which he watches with interest, until it ends.

Then, without his realizing, he’s got the shirt in his hand, and is bringing it up to his nose. The fabric is soft and pliant against his face. His fingers twitch as the scent fills his head. 

Every once in a while, they haul garbage bags to the laundromat, possibly, he tossed it in the wrong bag, or he slipped his clothes in to convince Butcher to let him tag along.

He can almost feel the weight of him in the room, on the bed beside Butcher, staving off the urge to annoy him with his neediness.

When they go places alone, it’s almost a marathon for them, getting their fill of each other before they have to come back to base and wrestle with everyone else.

With another whiff, he thinks at this point in the day, he’d have Hughie againsn’t the wall of the shower, water dripping into his eyes as he breathlessly begs Butcher for more, like they’ll never get the chance again. 

Butcher takes another deep sniff.

He’d have him on the bed, too, on his back, on Butcher’s coat, with his legs around Butcher’s waist.

He reaches for his beer and takes a lifeless swig. His cock twitches in his pants, as the visions keep coming.

Hughie would be so good for it, tilting his hips to take Butcher as deep as he could, that look of pleasure on his face like nothing compares to Butcher taking him apart.

It’s getting ridiculous, the feeling of mild anguish between his legs, and he should stop, really he should. It feels disrespectful, musing like this, thinking of Hughie in all of the vilest ways he knows. It’s a quiet defilement. 

Butcher takes another smell of Hughie’s shirt, and another sip of beer.

The images on the television are nothing to him, foreign currency, broken images. There are sounds, yes, but the only sounds he can think of is how much louder Hughie can be when he’s got Butcher inside of him. 

The heel of his hand finds its way to his cock, and the booze running through his system makes him a bit too lazy to pull it away.

Yeah, he’d be good and loud. He’d have the people next door banging on the walls, begging for Butcher to take it easy on him, keep him from making those long, bemused sounds that come out against his will. 

Christ, he’s gonna come in his pants, and the feeling will be disgusting. If Hughie was there, he’d fuck him until the boy was full with it, hole clenching to trap him inside.

Butcher opts for gripping the outline of his cock through his jeans, when the heel of his hand isn’t enough pressure. Hughie’s soft t-shirt is trapped in the mix, and, damn, if that isn’t fucking splendid. Maybe, if he can muster up the self control, he can hold it to his nose while he fucks his fist, get the aroma deep enough that he can taste it on his tongue. 

Or, he could come inside of it. Get it wet with his come and then give it back, just like that. The boy wouldn’t say no, he’d probably fucking wear it out. 

Butcher takes a sloppy sip of beer, feels it dribble down his chin, as he holds it in his mouth. 

Wouldn’t that be fucking brilliant? Hughie out and about wearing Butcher’s fucking come like a badge, letting Butcher scent him like a damn animal.

Butcher’s basically already an animal, rutting mindlessly into his own hand, without the decorum to even take off his jeans. What more would a little scent-marking do, hm? Put sweet Hughie in his place?

He’s so close to coming it’s almost painful, he’s seeing fucking stars-

The phone vibrates maliciously in his shirt pocket.

Through the mouthful of beer, he growls, as his hand grows painfully still, his free one coming to snatch the phone out of his shirt pocket.

He swallows before speaking. “What?”

The soft warbling on the other end does nothing for the unruly state of his erection, it’s Hughie. “Hi, Butcher!” 

“Hughie.” Does he sound excited? He’s unsure of how he sounds, only that he’s trying his hardest not to come on the phone.

“How’s your… uh… sabbatical?”

“Drawing to a close.” He says. “What do you need?”

There’s nothing, for a moment, except the sound of loud shuffling, and Hughie’s deep breathing, then, in a hushed, urgent tone, “You. I just wanted to talk to you. I wanted to- I need-”

“Hughie,” Butcher grunts, “Spit it out.”

“I miss you,” Hughie whimpers into the speaker, his voice soft and needy. “I missed you today. I missed… um-”

It’s an ego-booster, for fucking sure. Now Butcher is sure that he’s going to come, just listening to Hughie’s not-quite-shameless pleading on the phone, and this one is going to be so much better than an empty fantasy. Now he’s got sound effects for this daydream.

“You missed my cock, Hughie?” Quietly, he unfastens his belt, then zipper, then he’s pulling his cock out through his jeans, squeezing slowly. 

“Mmhm,” Hughie hiccups. “I woke up and I wanted you to fuck me, but you were gone.” 

His voice is syrupy, like he’s been drinking, because he’s been doing a lot more of that since he met Butcher.

“Sorry, love.” Butcher grunts. “You've been drinkin’?”

“A little.” The kid replies. “I was bored. Bored without you distracting me.”

“Distracting you?” Butcher spits in his hand, fucks slowly into his fist. If he can keep his breathing the same, Hughie will be none the wiser. “How? How do I distract you?”

“Like- like when- like- mm- like when you make me sit on your cock. But I can’t- fuck- fucking move.” Hughie pants. It quickly becomes clear that they each had the same genius idea- get off to the sound of the other’s voice.

“What are you doing to yourself over there, Hughie?” Butcher closes his eyes, ready to imagine whatever the lovely little thing is doing to himself. 

“‘M on my back. On the floor. I’ve got… fingers inside of myself.”

“How many?”

“Two. I wish they were yours. Please come back and fuck me so I can feel you.”

It occurs to him quite suddenly that Hughie is fucking pissed. He’s only a whore when he’s close to sloppy drunk, and Butcher rarely fucks him like that (prefers to loosen him up in other ways).

“Tell you what,” Butcher’s hand twists around his cock on every upstroke, his thumb tracing the veins. It’s so hard it’s it’s own limb, flushed a cherry red, and hungry in his hand. “When I get back, I’ll fuck you until you’re weeping like a little kitten. That sounds nice?”

“Yes,” Hughie moans, nice and long and low. His fingers don’t typically get to where he wants them to be, he relies on Butcher for that shot of pleasure, but something’s making up for it. 

“You rubbing your tits?” Butcher gravels, he can almost see it, the phone wedged up against his shoulder, fingers buried inside of himself, and a free hand relentlessly working his nipples.

“Yes. Yeah, it feels so fucking good. I wish- shit, shit- I wish you could see me.”

“Just you wait, love.”

“No. No, I wish you were here right now, so you could see me,” Hughie’s obviously very worked up about something, dedicated to Butcher coming home just for it.   
“Why?” His tongue is loose with pleasure from the spit-slick grip of his hand. “What am I gonna see when I walk in on you?”

Hughie, honest-to-God, giggles. It’s sweet, but dirty, because he’s plastered, with two fingers buried inside of himself to bring him to the edge. “I couldn’t find my shirt, so I put yours on.”

Just the sound of the words in Hughie’s mouth is enough to have him over the edge. He’s barely holding his orgasm back, it’s like fixing a dam with duct tape. 

“M’ shirt?” His voice is almost too low to be perceived. 

“Yeah,” Hughie moans so high he’s probably dizzy. “I’m gonna wear it when you come home. I’m gonna have it on while I’m riding your dick.”

Hughie’s laughing again, so evil, so filthy that Butcher has to bite his bottom lip to keep from growling. He can be a devil with wings and a halo, or an angel with fangs, when he wants to be.

“Yes, you fuckin’ will,” Butcher says. “You’ll look so good when you come for me.”

“Yes. So good. I love it, I love your smell.” Hughie’s moans are frantic now. He probably rubbed his nipples to soreness, and slipped another finger inside of himself, desperate to replicate the feeling of Butcher taking care of him.

When he’s back, at least Butcher can do that for him. 

“Yeah?” Butcher growls. “How do I smell?”

“So good.” Hughie’s so drunk he’s practically howling it into the phone. “You smell like… like cologne… like fucking fruit. I miss you, I’m so fucking drunk.”

“My good boy.” He can see his orgasm approaching like a tsunami. “I can’t wait to feel you. I have something for you, too.”

It takes Hughie a while to get himself together, enough to ask, with a little sappy lilt to his voice. “What is it?”

Wickedly, cock aching in his hand, Butcher grins. “I’ve got the shirt you left for me.”

He hears a quiet whine as Hughie adjusts to his words. With another sweet noise, Butcher can guess that he’s got his hand around his cock, working himself off to Butcher’s aimless filth. Hughie’s so drunk with pleasure (and with alcohol) he’s gone stupid. “My shirt? I lost it.”

“And I have it. Right now. And when you get it back,” He twists his cock in his grip once more, and he’s sure that he’s going to finish himself off soon. “You’ll get to wear my come.”

“Please.” Hughie mutters. “Come on my shirt. Please please please-”

Butcher swipes up his shirt, and to that sweet tune, he comes into the fabric. 

While he’s recovering, letting the aftershocks roll through him, he’s keeping his ear out for Hughie on the other line.

“When you come back,” He pants, “When you come back… please can I- can I-”

The floor lurches a bit under his feet, his vision frosting over like glass. “Spit it out.”

“Can I ride you?” Hughie whines. 

“Yes. Yes, Hughie.” Butcher sighs, slowly tipping into the bed.

Hughie comes so softly that Butcher thinks the phone has gone dead, until he moans once, in quiet relief. “‘M so fucking tired. I’m so drunk and I’m so tired.”

Butcher, himself is fighting to hold his head up. “Clean yourself up, and hit the sack.”

Hughie makes a noise of disagreement, “It’s the middle of the day. The sun is still out.”

“And here you are, fucking plastered. In the middle of the day.” Butcher shifts until his back is against the headboard, and balances the phone nicely on his shoulder. Sleep is pulling him in like gravity.

Hughie is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. You have a point. Stay on the phone, until I fall asleep.”

Butcher hums in agreement, and his eyes flicker shut, just for a little bit. His phone is down 40%, and the sun has slipped behind the hills. He puts the phone to his ear and listens to the sound of Hughie’s soft snores.

**Author's Note:**

> title from “so hot ur hurting my feelings” by Caroline polachek. That song might have saved my life :p


End file.
